


kyrie eleison

by bxzukhov (nbs4)



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherhood, Fatherhood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inaccurate Catholicism, Not Canon Compliant, also haven't read the book yet, i'm not religious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 01:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbs4/pseuds/bxzukhov
Summary: a cathedral is simply no place to raise your two adopted sons





	kyrie eleison

**Author's Note:**

> i want to make it abundantly clear that there is no justification or forgiveness for racism, for sexism, for wielding power with pride, for enforcing the rules of an unfair god on his other children, for limiting anyone’s freedom. as interesting as it is to get into the mind of someone so warped and devoid of human feeling, their unhappiness and internal conflict is never a means of redemption. plenty have spent their lives lacking love, and have led good lives anyways, or at the very least chosen as the target of their anger and hatred a true source of wrong in the world. plenty have spent their lives with love in their hearts but hatred in their actions, and that’s where the importance lies. anything that seems to be redeeming is simply a truth about that person in one particular moment in their life where they did the right thing. it says nothing about the rest of the moments in their life where they may have done great evil.
> 
> that all being said, this takes place in basically none of the established hond canons (kind of the book? inspired by certain parts of the book i have skimmed in order to motivate me to actually read the entire thing). it's sort of a "what if frollo were nice" fic but more accurately it's a "what if frollo made the right decision at the right time" fic. 
> 
> also-- i'm pretty sure most cathedrals don't have living spaces. i want to believe that they do, because i want to be able to live in one. not for religious purposes, i'm a born and raised agnostic. i just think they're gorgeous. i missed the opportunity to describe vaulted naves and stained glass rose windows, and i'm sorry for that.

    claude frollo awoke, once again, to the pitchy harmony of his two sons’ wailing.

_ they’re not my children. “don’t call me papa, jehan.” “quasimodo, i don’t even know who your father was.” _ _  
_ __ _ was. _

despite his protests, jehan had taken to calling him “papa,” and managed to get his cribmate, quasimodo, to repeat after him. the two toddlers liked to play their favorite game well into the middle of the night: the “how many times can we say the word ‘papa’ before ‘papa’ yells at us” game.    


at first, it took quite some time. claude didn’t want to admit it, but he was genuinely touched by the word, incorrect as it was, so he didn’t stop them from screaming it until they truly were screaming, and the thin walls of the cathedral’s living quarters threatened to resound with knocks, bangs, and much deeper, older screams than his small room could respond with. the last thing he needed was to be sternly reminded that he was the youngest archdeacon of josas in over a century, that his rich father couldn’t use his connections to aid him anymore, that twenty years of fervent study, of self-flagellation, of praying until his knees could hardly bend straight again, of ignoring all the pleasures of life in favor of more and more study would be no excuse for slacking now, even when his mind and body seemed ready to cave in…

it nearly happened, the first time he held his brother. it nearly happened again as he held an entirely anonymous, ghastly infant in his arms and truly looked at another human being in a way he had thought previously mystical, mythical, his gaze being deserved only by the aching, ancient christ wherever he may be found, and then his lord whenever he may meet him. the first time he placed jehan and quasimodo in the same crib, and saw them instantly feel for one another, grab onto one another with their tiny hands, the monster gently petting his angelic brother, his father’s son cooing into the g***y’s ear, he wept. he had never wept in his life. not even in the soul-shattering heat of religious ecstasy, surrounded by the only people he had ever known, all chanting in the lord’s language, did he weep. but once he began to sob, he found himself sobbing for his father, for his mother, even if he barely knew them, and he cried for god as well, of course, and for god’s son, and even for the future of these two boys, something he hadn’t considered while he was so overwhelmed by carrying them off to his protection, and by that point he was imagining a future in which they might hate him for not being able to provide, being still a boy himself.    


he whipped himself, but stopped when he heard the boys crying at the noise. claude couldn’t remember when he still had the luxury of never hearing the sound of a whip. 

despite this outburst, he continued his studies. with a little less vigor than before, perhaps, but then he heard his father saying something about his distant ancestors who had been the proud archdeacons of josas, and then he continued. every time he was forced to break away from his books, even for just a moment, he felt his desire slip just a little, but it was buoyed up again by the knowledge that it cost money to raise two children, especially when certain aspects of childrearing, such as breastfeeding, which would normally be free, required claude to empty his wallet further, feeling regret for the first time in his life that he was born a man, if only because he couldn’t be a mother to the boys.    


now that he had acquired the prized title, he felt an ancient, evil urge grow stronger…   


he just wanted to find somewhere cozy and kind and raise the boys well.   


    his father would loathe him for it, but claude knew he couldn’t just send jehan to school, as he had done with claude himself. if it weren’t for jehan’s unfortunate catapulting into his life, he would still not know what it feels like to love. he had to repay jehan for teaching him this.    


    his father would also loathe him for taking in quasimodo at all, but that doesn’t matter anymore. the only option he has with “number two,” as he tiredly refers to him internally, is to raise him within the cathedral, but claude knows this is no good place for a child.  sure, he’ll be mostly free from the teasing and taunting he would know in the real world, but a child needs to run, and laugh, and play.

he thinks. he wouldn’t know. but the way that jehan and quasimodo, still in diapers, wrestle and teethe and grapple with each other alarms him.    


_     if it seems so right, then why can’t he remember ever playing with another boy like that?  _

__ “papa!”   


he throws his bible to the floor, and the thump visibly frightens the boys.

“...i’m not your papa.”

“ _ papa!” _ the boys yell, almost in perfect synchronization.

“look at me, please. hush. i’m not so much older than you.”

“ _ papa! papa!” _

he groans, he stifles a sob, and claude stands up, takes the three steps over to the crib, and picks the boys up. they’ve gotten so much larger since he first took each one from their abandoned stations. any larger, and he’ll have to start teaching them to walk.   


_     there’s no good place to teach a child how to walk in a cathedral. there’s no good place to have a child run in a cathedral. there’s no good place to have a child-- _ _  
_ __

    he grabs another cassock from his drawer, struggles with it for a few moments, and eventually fashions some sort of a double-sling. he grabs yet another cassock and uses it to hide what he’s carrying.   


    then, he waits until it gets dark, he peers down the narrow hallway, and claude frollo makes his escape from notre dame.    


_ priests are always needed in this world of sinners. the only way i can make sure my own children do not fall into sin is to supervise them, to be with them, to raise them,to love them. and to love them i can’t be the archdeacon of josas. _ _  
_ __

_     in the countryside, they’ll learn to play.  _ _  
_ __

_     i’ll learn to play. _

_     i’m sorry, father.  
_

_     i’m sorry, Father. _ _  
_


End file.
